To aer that do bear along The loud-rung peals o' Zunday bells, Upon the day o' days the best, The day o' greace an' peace an' rest.

By brightshod veet, in peair an' peair, Wi' comely steps the road's a-took To church, an' work-free han's do bear Woone's walken stick or sister's book; An' there the bloomen niece do come To zee her aunt, in all her best; Or married daughter do bring hwome Her vu'st sweet child upon her breast, As she do seek the holy pleace, The day o' rest an' peace an' greace.

THE PILLAR'D GEaTE.

As I come by, zome years agoo, A-burnt below a sky o' blue, 'Ithin the pillar'd geate there zung A vace a-sounden sweet an' young, That meade me veel awhile to zwim In weaves o' ja to hear its hymn; Vor all the zinger, angel-bright, Wer then a-hidden vrom my zight, An' I wer then too low To seek a meate to match my steate 'Ithin the lofty-pillar'd geate, Wi' stwonen b.a.l.l.s upon the walls: Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

Another time as I come by The house, below a dark-blue sky, The pillar'd geate wer oben wide, An' who should be a-show'd inside, But she, the comely mad whose hymn Woonce meade my giddy bran to zwim, A-zitten in the sheade to zew, A-clad in robes as white as snow.

What then? could I so low Look out a meate ov higher steate So ga 'ithin a pillar'd geate, Wi' high walls round the smooth-mow'd ground?

Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

Long years stole by, a-gliden slow, Wi' winter cwold an' zummer glow, An' she wer then a widow, clad In grey; but comely, though so sad; Her husband, heartless to his bride, Spent all her store an' wealth, an' died, Though she noo mwore could now rejace, Yet sweet did sound her zongless vace.

But had she, in her woe, The higher steate she had o' leate 'Ithin the lofty pillar'd geate, Wi' stwonen b.a.l.l.s upon the walls?

Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

But while she vell, my Meaker's greace Led me to teake a higher pleace, An' lighten'd up my mind wi' lore, An' bless'd me wi' a worldly store; But still noo winsome feace or vace, Had ever been my wedded chace; An' then I thought, why do I mwope Alwone without a ja or hope?

Would she still think me low?

Or scorn a meate, in my feair steate, In here 'ithin a pillar'd geate, A happy pleace wi' her kind feace?

Oh, no! my hope, no, no.

I don't stand out 'tis only feate Do gi'e to each his wedded meate; But eet there's woone above the rest, That every soul can like the best.

An' my wold love's a-kindled new, An' my wold dream's a-come out true; But while I had noo soul to sheare My good an' ill, an' jay an ceare, Should I have bliss below, In gleamen pleate an' lofty steate 'Ithin the lofty pillar'd geate, Wi' feairest flow'rs, an' ponds an' tow'rs?

Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

ZUMMER STREAM.

Ah! then the gra.s.sy-meaded Ma Did warm the pa.s.sen year, an' gleam Upon the yellow-grounded stream, That still by beech-tree sheades do stra.

The light o' weaves, a-runnen there, Did pla on leaves up over head, An' vishes scealy zides did gleare, A-darten on the shallow bed, An' like the stream a-sliden on, My zun out-measur'd time's agone.

There by the path, in gra.s.s knee-high, Wer b.u.t.tervlees in giddy flight, All white above the deaisies white, Or blue below the deep blue sky.

Then glowen warm wer ev'ry brow, O' mad, or man, in zummer het, An' warm did glow the cheaks I met That time, noo mwore to meet em now.

As brooks, a-sliden on their bed, My season-measur'd time's a-vled.

Vrom yonder window, in the thatch, Did sound the madens' merry words, As I did stand, by zingen birds, Bezide the elem-sheaded hatch.

'Tis good to come back to the pleace, Back to the time, to goo noo mwore; 'Tis good to meet the younger feace A-menten others here avore.

As streams do glide by green mead-gra.s.s, My zummer-brighten'd years do pa.s.s.

LINDA DEaNE.

The bright-tunn'd house, a-risen proud, Stood high avore a zummer cloud, An' windy sheades o' tow'rs did vall Upon the many-window'd wall; An' on the gra.s.sy terrace, bright Wi' white-bloom'd zummer's deasy beds, An' snow-white lilies nodden heads, Sweet Linda Deane did walk in white; But ah! avore too high a door, Wer Linda Deane ov Ellendon.

When sparklen brooks an' gra.s.sy ground, By keen-ar'd Winter's vrost wer bound, An' star-bright snow did streak the forms O' beare-lim'd trees in darksome storms, Sweet Linda Deane did lightly glide, Wi' snow-white robe an' rwosy feace, Upon the smooth-vloor'd hall, to treace The merry dance o' Chris'mas tide; But oh! not mine be b.a.l.l.s so fine As Linda Deane's at Ellendon.

Sweet Linda Deane do match the skies Wi' sheenen blue o' glisnen eyes, An' fearest blossoms do but show Her forehead's white, an' feace's glow; But there's a winsome ja above, The brightest hues ov e'th an' skies.

The dearest zight o' many eyes, Would be the smile o' Linda's love; But high above my lowly love Is Linda Deane ov Ellendon.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

COME AND ZEE US IN THE ZUMMER.

_John; William; William's Bwoy; and William's Mad at Feair._

JOHN.

Zoo here be your childern, a-shearen Your feair-day, an' each wi' a feairen.

WILLIAM.

Aye, well, there's noo peace 'ithout comen To stannen an' show, in the zummer.

JOHN.

An' how is your Jeane? still as merry As ever, wi' cheaks lik' a cherry?

WILLIAM.

Still merry, but beauty's as feadesome 'S the ran's glowen bow in the zummer.

JOHN.

Well now, I do hope we shall vind ye Come soon, wi' your childern behind ye, To Stowe, while o' bwoth zides o' hedges, The zunsheen do glow in the zummer.

WILLIAM.

Well, aye, when the mowen is over, An' ee-gra.s.s do whiten wi' clover.

A man's a-tired out, vor much walken, The while he do mow in the zummer.

WILLIAM'S BWOY.

I'll goo, an' we'll zet up a wicket, An' have a good innens at cricket; An' teake a good plounce in the water.

Where clote-leaves do grow in the zummer.

WILLIAM'S MAID.